


Yakov: The greatest hits album

by ScribblesInTheMargins



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 1963, 1964, 1964 Winter Olympics, 1968, 1972, 1999, 2006, 2006 Winter Olympics, Drinking, M/M kissing, Multi, References to Homophobia, Soviet Era, Underage Drinking, Yakov's Innsbruck Roommates, divroce, yakovweek2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-16 13:57:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16087511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribblesInTheMargins/pseuds/ScribblesInTheMargins
Summary: A look back at the crucial turning points in the life of Yakov Feltsman as a skater and as a coach culminating in how his fate and Victor's became entwined.  Alternately, how time passes, things change, but really they all stay the same.7 looks at Yakov and 7 songs that influenced themDay 1 - Masters of War - Bob DylanDay 2 - Ring of Fire - Johnny Cash (1963 version)Day 3 - House of the Rising Sun - Bob Dylan versionDay 4 - Hello, I love you - The DoorsDay 5 - Nights in White Satin - The Moody BluesDay 6 - 21st Century Digital Boy - Bad ReligionDay 7 - Call Me When You're Sober - Evanescence





	1. Day 1 - Masters of War - Bob Dylan

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yakov Week! How could I not celebrate such a wonderful event!  
> This will be updated with 7 chapters, one for each tag and hopefully on each day.  
> They will be one interconnected story set in different years.  
> Each day the Summary will be updated with the song for that day.

**Day 1: Coach**

 

**Prompt - Yakov's Coach**

**Song - Masters of War - Bob Dylan - on an Xray record**

**Year - 1963 age 17**

 

Alexander Sergeievich Mikhailov, not for the first time, found himself internally cursing.  He didn't swear, he was not one of those men who swore. No, he wished that he was still skating.  But no, age had made sure that that was not the case. He knew what was on the line. The Soviet Union was not doing well.  Everyone knew it, even if there was no way in hell he was going to say a word about that in public. He wasn't stupid. The crops were shit.  Food was -- well, importing grain was never a good sign. Here he was though, dragging fucking Yakov Davidovich Feltsman back to the boy's dorm at the St Petersburg athletic training center.  The fucking hope of the USSR for the upcoming Olympics was drunk. No, drunk did not touch this. This was dead weight that he was literally dragging down a hallway before using the key he had to open the boy's dorm room.  

 

On paper, this was a university dorm.  Yakov, as well as the other skaters, were all students.  In reality, they were athletes who trained near every hour of the day for the greater good.  The Olympics were next year. Innsbruck. Oh, he wanted to go to Innsbruck so badly, but his best hope was fucking drunk and he was mad - no, mad did not even touch this.  He was livid.

 

Finally, the door was open, and he was dragging Yakov into the small apartment.  It was a single room, but the boy had the entire space to himself. There was room for a bed, a couch, and a small TV -- honestly, for a seventeen-year-old boy who had nothing to worry about in his life except his skating, it was a nice setup.

 

Making sure there was a trash can next to the bed, he managed to lever the young man up onto the mattress, sighing as he stood back up.  He knew he shouldn't leave -- not until his skater at least regained consciousness.

 

Sighing, he moved to the couch, dragging out a pillow and a blanket.  Yes, at one point in his life he had been a famous skater -- now he was evidently babysitting a drunk, spoilt child who snuck out of the dorms to drink and party and the boy had better appreciate the fact that the police had called him instead of something much worse.

 

Looking up at the ceiling the man sighed, then his eyes spotted something.   He was no stranger to X-rays. He'd had more than he could count and his students many times that.  Why was there an X-ray film in his student's dorm though? He walked over to the pile of papers and records.  Along with the proper Russian classical music, Tchaikovsky, Prokofiev, Shostakovich, and Rachmaninoff there was a piece of x-ray film there.  Growling, he picked up the X-ray, looking at it and instantly knowing what it was. Contraband. He had found illegal contraband in his student's room.  

 

Over what was an Xray of a broken wrist, he could see the single line traced around and around the roughly cut circle of x-ray film.  He didn't want to know how much Yakov had spent on this. He didn't care. Between the alcohol and now this, clearly, the boy had too much spending money.  That could be corrected.

 

Originally, he had intended to let Yakov sleep this off and wake up with a killer hangover in the morning and that would be when he tortured the boy.  No, now this changed it. He walked to the small closet that held what could almost be called a kitchen and found a large pot which he proceeded to fill with cold water.  The entire time the water ran, the man fumed. Did this idiot not realize how bad this was? Not only would he have gotten in trouble -- and this time more trouble than could be smoothed over.  Drinking was one thing. He could always go to the police station and get the boy for that. This though -- contraband -- no.

 

He carried the water over to where Yakov was snoring on the bed and then dumped the whole thing over his young skater's head.  No one else gave him this many problems. Every other skater he trained was less work than this one skater -- why the hell did the boy have to be so skilled.  Ten months to the Olympics. He just had to make it to the Olympics.

 

Yakov sat up, gasping for air and coughing even as he wobbled as he sat on the bed, clearly trying to figure out where he was, how he got there -- oh, and why he was soaking wet.

 

"Yasha …"  The tone in Alexander's voice was much too saccharine.  The soft form of the boy's name a clear warning. This was not using that form with any fondness, only an idiot would think it was anything but danger.

 

Blue eyes wide, his sandy brown hair hanging into his eyes as he looked up at his coach.  He was so light, not even sixty kilos even dripping wet like he was now. "Coach Sergeievich?"  The confusion was clear on the boy's face.

 

"Oh, so you do remember you have a coach.  Here I had thought you had forgotten that."  The saccharine tone never left as he addressed his student.

 

In a brief flare of common sense, Yakov kept his mouth shut.

 

"So, are you going to tell me why you were out tonight?  After curfew?" Alexander let his foot tap as he watched his student try desperately to think through the alcohol haze.

 

Before Yakov could say anything, his stomach decided that this was the best time to rebel.

 

Even as Yakov threw up into the wastebasket, Alexander stood there, his foot tapping as he waited.  Being sick was not going to get Yakov out of this. No -- this was much much too serious for that.

 

As Yakov looked up finally, vomit still on his smooth face, and looking absolutely pitiful with tears streaming from his eyes.  As the boy aged, his features would firm up, but for now, they were soft, feminine in his youth.

 

"Yasha … Do you have anything to tell your coach?  Anything to confess?" It was very clear that Alexander knew something.  The tone when he called the boy Yasha continuing to be full of warning.

 

"I'm sorry … there was a girl…"

 

"Oh?  The drinking?  The sneaking out after curfew?  That is what you think I am mad about?"  Eyes as cold as ice glared back at Yakov.

 

Yakov didn't want to glance at his records, but his instincts betrayed him as his eyes flicked over for a second.  His poker face was horrible and he knew it.

 

"Ahh, you have something to confess little Yasha?  Something you did?" Alexander watched as terror passed over his skater's face.

 

Then, grabbing his lighter, Alexander walked over to the window as he opened it and with the round x-ray film in one hand and his lighter in the other started to burn the film, destroying all evidence until there was nothing but a molten pile of plastic in the bottom of the pot he had used to dump the water.

 

As the precious album melted and burned, Yakov couldn't pull his eyes away.  He had listened to it already, so many times that he had every word memorized.  Bob Dylan's Masters of War pressed onto a cheap piece of X-ray film that Yakov had spent much too much money on.  He wouldn't forget the song though. Even as he watched his coach destroy it, he knew he was lucky. Most people in Alexander's place would have turned him in.  Not his coach though. Even as Yakov felt the world go dark again, collapsing onto the wet bed as the alcohol knocked him out again, he knew how lucky he was that he was in that bed instead of someplace much much worse tonight.

 

Come you masters of war  
You that build all the guns  
You that build the death planes  
You that build the big bombs  
You that hide behind walls  
You that hide behind desks  
I just want you to know  
I can see through your masks

 

 

 


	2. Day 2 - Ring of Fire - Johnny Cash

**Day 2: Skater | Soviet period**

 

**Prompt - Motivation | goals**

**Song - Ring of Fire - Johnny Cash (1963 version)**

**Year - 1964  age 18  - winter Olympics**

 

Yakov had the key and the paperwork given to him by the registration desk and with his travel duffel thrown over one shoulder and his skate bag over the other, he made his way up the to the ninth floor of the ten-story building that had been built to house the athletes at this year's Olympics.  As he slipped the key in once he reached his room, he heard talking from the other side of the door. Pausing a moment, he thought maybe he should have knocked first, but the key was already in so no turning back now. 

 

As he opened the door, the room was revealed and it was nice.  It was much larger than he had expected, there were two other men in the room, and they had both seemed to claim the bunk bed on the right side of the dorm.  The window had the curtain open, and the view from the ninth floor was amazing. 

 

He had recognized that they were speaking English when he had been unlocking the door, so he looked from one to the other, "Hello.  My name is Yakov." Between his accent and the overly pretentious (at least in his opinion) golden seal fur coat, he was certain they could figure out English was not his native language.  He had forgotten USSR was embroidered across the back of his jacket. He was too busy overheating indoors as he drowned in the fur. He looked from them to the bunk beds on the left side of the room.  He walked over and looked at the top bunk on the left. "No one has this one?" 

 

"Oh hey, no, it's just us so far."  The two other guys looked at him, "I'm Brad this is Jacques. "

 

"Hey.  Yeah, I'm Alpine, Canada."  Jacques had blue eyes and sandy brown hair, sitting there on the floor with the other guy.

 

"Speed skating, America."  Brad smiled, tanned, blond hair and brown eyes, the man practically screamed an American stereotype.

 

"Oh, Yakov, Men's figure skating, Soviet Union."  He couldn't pull the fur off fast enough. Honestly, it wasn't even cold this year in Innsbruck and the fur had been making him sweat.

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, all three of them were sitting on the floor, stunned and impressed by how prepared Brad was because the man had brought a record player and records.  

 

"How amazing would it be if skaters could skate to this!"  Yakov was pointing at the record wondering how he had gotten such amazing roommates.  They had paper cups of Gin, because evidently Gin was what Brad had somehow snuck in.

 

Seriously, Brad was the best roommate ever.

 

"It's all just classical, right? like … Mozart?"  Brad seemed really proud of himself that he remembered the name of a composer.

 

"Worse, if you're Russian, it's all just  Tchaikovsky because I swear my coach would have sex with that man's corpse."  

 

Either Brad and Jaques were as drunk as Yakov was, or just assumed it made more sense in Russian as all three of them laughed.

 

Three hours of drinking and talking later, suddenly Yakov sat up, "What is this!  This!" He was pointing at the record player, eyes wide.

 

"It's Johnny Cash.  Don't you have that back where you're from?"

 

"No.  Western music is banned."  

 

"Banned?"  Brad looked shocked.  About that point was when Yakov realized that Jaques had evidently passed out or fallen asleep at some point.

 

"Yeah -- my coach caught me with a record last year.  He made me do jumps for like hours the next morning. Hungover!"

 

"Coaches are the worst!"  

 

"I know!  See when I'm a coach, I'm going to be the cool coach, that's what I'm going to do.  I'm not going to yell at my students. I'm not going to make them do ballet camps. I'll let them skate to what they want to and not freak out every time I get a call from the police that a skater is passed out at some place."  Yakov almost spilled his cup of gin as he explained his plans.

 

"You want to coach?"

 

"Well, yeah, after I change skating!"  OK, maybe Yakov had had too much to drink.  "It's too serious. It needs …" He paused for much too long, thinking of the word he was looking for in English, but the gin was making it very hard.  " сверкание " … As if he realized that wasn't English, he tried again," " пышность"  Yes, that was definitely not English.  The closest he could finally come up with was, "Glitter!" 

 

Brad just laughed, his head falling back on his mattress as he sat on the floor -- not caring that the Canadian had already fallen asleep on his bed, "Glitter…"  That was the last word Brad would remember from the night, and Yakov wasn't far behind him, not managing to climb up to the top bunk, but instead falling asleep on the floor with a paper cup of Gin near his hand.

 

* * *

 

At some point in the night, Yakov woke up, his stomach a mess, but not as bad as he'd been other times.  Someone was really close to him though -- and he was on the floor. As he opened his eyes, he found himself staring into the prettiest blue eyes he had ever seen.  Smiling, assuming maybe things had gone well and somehow they had found some pretty girls -- then he realized, no. it was still just him, brad and jaques, and it was Jacques that was braced on his elbows looking down at him.

 

"You passed out."  The Canadian hadn't said much to this point, mostly just nodding and laughing along, and although Yakov had heard his accent before, this was his first moment to actually appreciate the  Québécois accent.  

 

"We drank a lot."  Yakov blinked, not sure why the other man was that close, or looking down at him like that.

 

"I heard what you said, about skating…"  The Canadian's tone remained soft.

 

"About skating?"  It was really hard to concentrate with such pretty eyes looking at him.

 

"Yes, about changing the sport and making it less … stuffy."  Jacques was smiling as he said it. "Because you're not … stuffy, right?"

 

"No…" Yakov was blinking, trying to figure out what was going on here.

 

"Good."  

 

At that moment, Yakov found himself kissing another man, but instead of Gin, Jacques' lips tasted like peppermint.  The Alpine skier's lips were soft but firm, pressing Yakov back into the floor for a moment before the man pulled back, smiling and then standing up to go and crawl up into his own top bunk.

 

Yakov would eventually realize that the Canadian had a tub of peppermint lip balm in his pocket at all times.  While the Olympics wouldn't last forever, the fact he kept peppermint lip balm in his own pocket from that day forward did.

  
  
**Love is a-** burnin **' thing**  
 **And it makes a fiery ring**  
 **Bound by wild desire**  
 **I fell into a ring of fire**  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN - the Russian words are what happens when google tries to translate glitter for you.  Neither is right, the one is more sparkle and flashy while the other is more grandeur and pomp -- BOTH of which are things Yakov kinda means and Glitter is NOT exactly what he means at all.
> 
> kudos and comments are awesome   
> so are questions about any of the historical facts ;)


	3. Day 3 - House of the Rising sun - Bob Dylan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of the Innsbruck 1960s chapters. The next 4 are more modern but all tie back to these :)
> 
> The version of the song that Brad has a record of is this one - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ryN7PGfFII  
> There are crucial differences between this one which is closer to the traditional than the one The Animals released later in 1964

 

**Day 3: Lover | Youth - 60′s**

 

**Prompt(s) -past  lover & fashion | songs | hair**

**Year - 1963 age 17**

**Song - House of the Rising sun - Bob Dylan 1961 version**

 

  

The next day Yakov hauled himself out of bed and down to the practice rink with his gear.  The obvious hangover only getting him a glare and harder work from Coach Sergeievich. Of course.  It was far from the first time that Yakov had shown up to practice hungover -- at least he wasn't drunk.

 

Alexander watched as he pushed Yakov through jumps and moves, yelling at every mistake -- loudly since he knew the boy had a headache.  His other skater by his side as she looked up at him, frowning a little. She was a little older, nearing what could be the end of her singles career, but maybe another few years as a pairs skater were in her future.  

 

"Coach Sergeievich?"  She looked up at him, not hiding the frown

 

"What."

 

With a sigh, she looked back at the rink, "You yell too much.  The more modern clothing, the hair in his eyes, the girls all pay more attention to his skating you know.  The sport might be changing from when you were king." She tilted her head as she looked up at him.

 

"He is a rebel, Anya, and you know it.  He can not be a rebel, not now. That man up there, top of the stands over there in the suit pretending to read a paper -- don't look."

 

She had started to look, but then turned back to her coach, "What about him?"

 

"You think we are here without supervision?  No. We are not. I need you both to behave. I promised your families I would take care of you -- and that means keeping you both safe."

 

"Coach, we are adults.  We can make our…"

 

She trailed off as she saw Yakov miss a jump, land roughly on the ice.  She watched as he then dramatically threw himself onto the ice harder, the toe picks of his skates raising up a small shower of sparks as the boy started to yell about how horrible his coach was.

 

Anastasia shook her head, "No.  You are right. He needs to be watched."

 

* * *

 

 

After a horrible practice, Yakov collapsed back into his bed, crawling up into the top bunk on the right, no one else was there, he just plopped down and tried to calm down.  He hated how mad he sometimes got. It was why his coach picked more aggressive music for him -- serene was not a thing he could reliably replicate on ice.

 

He kicked at the ceiling, this sucks.  This was the fucking Olympics. This was supposed to be fun!  But no, fucking coach Alexander Sergeievich Mikhailov whom the fucking skating federation worshipped for his shitty out of date and tired routines, just because of the medals he had won when skating sucked had to ruin this entire thing.

 

Yakov had worked himself into a complete funk by the time anyone opened the door.  As his coach said, sometimes he was worse than any of his thirteen-year-olds. That was about the time he'd start to be called the little prima donna as well.  It wasn't Yakov's fault he was short Just because every other man in the division was 180 cm or taller. It just meant he had more grace. He knew he'd never reach that tall, but he was taller than last year, he was just a little late in his growth spurt.  It didn't mean he'd always be smaller.

 

Yakov rolled to the side of the bunk, looking to see who was there -- by this point they were pretty sure they were not getting a fourth roommate.  Russia had been one of the last countries to arrive -- Yakov was positive it was so that everyone would be around to see their grand arrival as they all for off the plane in their fancy coats.  It didn't matter.

 

Jacques looked up at him, the Canadian's brow furrowing, "What happened?"

 

"Just my coach is an old asshole."

 

"Tell me about it.  I know how that goes."  Jacque threw his gear to the side of his bunk bed and then looked over at Yakov before tilting his head, "Want me to come up there and … talk about it?"

 

Yakov's blue eyes widened as he looked down at the Canadian, "If you want."  He wasn't going to say 'yes'. He wasn't going to say 'no' though. Jacques walked over to the record player, putting a few of Brad's vinyls on as he

 

Maybe somethings were better than complaining and making out was entirely one of those things.  Peppermint was a very good thing. Wandering hands were a very good thing.

 

 

 

> **There is a house down in New Orleans**
> 
> **They call the rising sun**
> 
> **And it's been the ruin of many poor girl**
> 
> **And me, oh God, I'm one.**

 

Yakov had no idea how long it had been, but he was entirely more relaxed with the Canadians weight on him and those peppermint lips when suddenly his haze was destroyed.

 

He could never tell you how, but somehow his coach reached up to that top bunk and physically yanked him out of it and to the floor.  "Yashka!" The slap across his face wasn't as much of a shock as his coaches eyes.

 

Yakov was frozen -- expecting rage and anger.  He knew what he was looking at though, and that was not, that was not rage - that was fear.

 

 

 

> **Oh tell my baby sister**
> 
> **Not to do what I have done**
> 
> **But shun that house in New Orleans**
> 
> **They call the rising sun.**
> 
>  

Without another word, his coach grabbed his things and pulled him from the room, forcing him out of that room to never return, to never see Brad or Jaques again.  Yakov was forced to walk to the coach's dorms, Alexander not saying a word. Instead, he walked Yakov up to the third floor, opening the door to his own and shoving the boy in.

 

"You will stay here.  You will not leave my sight."

 

"That's not fair!"

 

"Do you know what they would do to you!"  The fear was back, but Alexander forced himself to stop, to not scream back.  The room was small, one twin bed and one desk. "You will sleep there." he pointed at the bed.  "I will sleep on the floor, but Yasha, Yasha, you have to behave. I know I know -- you don't want to, I promised your grandfather I would keep you safe.  You have to …" He took a deep breath as he walked over to the small attached bathroom, grabbing clippers from his bag.

 

"I can't change your clothes for your skate, we have nothing else packed.  However, you can not look the rebel. You can not draw attention like this Yasha -- just, keep your head down and we'll get through this."

 

"You hate me."  Yakov's eyes were narrowed and he was refusing to listen.

 

"Listen to me, boy.  Find yourself a girl.  Boring girl. Not too pretty.  Not talented. Not well known. Just a girl no one has ever heard of.  Date her. Tolerate her. Marry her."

 

Then he grabbed the clippers and that shaggy hair and all of it's still stubbornly remaining summer highlights fell to the linoleum floor.  When he was done, the boy's pretty locks were gone, leaving a short basic buzz cut.

 

Alexander looked at his student, sighing, knowing the boy was hurt, knowing that he had caused a lot of those tears.  What could he do though? If the KGB agents found out what had happened -- no, just kissing, he could get Yakov out of that level of danger.  Anything more and -- no, Yakov would spend the rest of Innsbruck sleeping in his coaches room.

 

"Yashenka, don't throw your life away on some boy."  So many skaters he had told that to. Maybe someday one would listen.

 

 

 

> **There is a house down in New Orleans**
> 
> **They call the rising sun**
> 
> **And it's been the ruin of many poor girl**
> 
> **And me, oh God, I'm one.**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is different and kinda a risk to write it like this but ... I hope at least one or two other people are enjoying it as much as I'm liking writing it.
> 
> kudos comments feedback -- I love anything :)


	4. Day 4 - Hello, I love you - The Doors

**Day 4:  Relationships | Soft Yakov**

**Prompt - birthday**

**Song - Hello, I love you - The Doors**

**Year - 1968 - April Age just turned 23**

 

 

Silver!  It felt amazing.  Grenoble had been amazing.  In the four years since Innsbruck, Yakov had put on some height and some muscle and he was famous!  Well, at least in sports circles he was famous. He had tossed Coach Sergeivich's advice to the side and was dating the prettiest girl he could find.  She was a gymnast. Everyone knew about gymnasts.

 

April 20th and it was his birthday.  He was no longer living in the boy's sports dormitory.  He had a piece of paper saying he had graduated from the University here.   Kinesiology or something like that. He didn't care much about it. 

 

Fancy food, fancy clothes, fancy girl and a fancy date to the Mariinsky Ballet.  IT had been a perfect birthday. He had only been back in St. Petersburg for a month and everyone knew all the members of the 1968 Olympic team.

 

He was slightly tipsy and the girl was clinging to his arm.  She was by far from his first girlfriend. After Innsbruck, he had been dating near constantly -- both to his coach's approval and the man's exasperation.  It was what it was though and soon the house lights were going down.

 

As he tried to sneak his hand down the back of his date's dress in the dark, his eyes were drawn to the stage and suddenly Yakov froze.

 

Grace incarnate was on that stage and his eyes were drawn to her.  

 

> **Her arms are wicked and her legs are long**
> 
> **When she moves my brain screams out this song**
> 
>  

He swore he stopped breathing, suddenly all of his attention turned to the ballet number before him.  No, that was a lie. The music faded from his mind, the pomp and pageantry of the amazing theatre faded.  The background dancers, the male lead -- everyone except her faded from his mind. He had to know who she was.

 

By the intermission, his date was frowning and looking mad at him.  She grabbed her purse and walked off, leaving him alone. Perhaps the only good of that was that she hadn't slapped him or anything.  She hadn't made a scene, not that Yakov would have cared. All he wanted to know was who was that beautiful dancer.

 

Flowers purchased at a premium in the lobby as soon as the production ended and he was using every last bit of name dropping power he had to try and get backstage -- it all was a failure.  While more of the Soviet Union would do near anything for someone who had brought home a silver -- it was not enough to affect how things were run at the Mariinsky Theatre. 

 

Yakov found himself waiting by the stage door of the theatre late at night.  So many dancers had left and Yakov had no idea if he had missed her. She hadn't even been named in the program, it probably meant that she was a recent graduate from the Vaganova Academy.  If that was the case, she was probably not yet twenty. 

 

He remained there with the flowers until the trickle of the dancers seemed to stop.  Only then did she walk out, a thin coat over her frame and alone, even at this hour in this city.  

 

As soon as Yakov saw her, he ran up to her, the flowers in his hand as he held them out to her, "I saw you dance, you were amazing.  I'm Yakov Davidovich, two time Olympian." He gave her his best smile as he said it.

 

If he knew then what he knew now, he never would have approached her like that.

 

"I see."  Those green eyes looked at him, as if she were not slightly shorter than him, even in her high heeled boots.  "Well, good for you. I assume if you are worthy someone already gave you a medal so you do not need anything from me."

 

As she turned sharply on one heel, Yakov was left stunned, running after her with less grace than he would have liked to admit.  "What is your name?"

 

> **Hello, I love you**
> 
> **Won't you tell me your name?**
> 
> **Hello, I love you**
> 
> **Let me jump in your game**

 

The woman sighed, turning to look at him with disdain.  "It is Lilia Baranovskaya." She did not care if that was a horribly formal way for her to give her name.  "Not that it matters to you."

"I have flowers for you."  He held them out.

"And what makes you think that I'd want your flowers?"  She ignored them.

 

> **She's walking down the street**
> 
> **Blind to every eye she meets**

 

He hurried after her, smiling, if he had learned one thing in all his training and the classes he had had to take it was how to impress a woman, quoting from Romeo and Juliet, he started, "If I profane with my unworthiest hand--"

"Oh seriously?"  She scoffed right in his face at that. "You do realize that is a tragedy, not a romance correct?  Or do they not teach that to skaters."

His eyes widened, both at her scolding and at the subtle accidental admission that she did know who he was.

"I have no intention of dying some love foolish girl.  I will die in wealth in my old age, now get out of my way."  

 

> **Do you think you'll be the guy**
> 
> **To make the queen of the angels sigh?**

 

"You're brilliant."  Yakov just stood the stunned.

 

Lilia paused, turning to look at him as she tilted her head.  That was a new one.

 

"I -- I had thought you were just beautiful and graceful, and the strength of your poses but -- you're actually brilliant as well?"  Attempts to impress her had been forgotten. He was too impressed himself.

 

She laughed at that, "You sound so surprised."

 

"Of course, it's been my experience that those with talent and looks neglect their learning?"

 

"And you?"  She smirked now, looking at him.  It wasn't as if he were bad looking -- but he knew that.

 

"Skipped every class I could get away with, but no one cared."  He smiled as he admitted it.

 

She laughed, "Honest at least.  Stupid, but honest."

 

"You left off talented but egocentric?"

 

"Oh, I that went without saying?"  Lilia was smiling now, her mouth barely showing the smile, just the slightest upturn at the corner.

 

"May I at least walk you home?"  Yakov wasn't bothering to hide his smile.

 

"I could find that agreeable."  

 

She never could figure out why she had said yes that night, but there had been worse decisions made in her life.  It was nice, as he put his coat over her slender shoulders and walked her to her small apartment. The conversation simple and about the ballet until he looked at his watch, "Oh -- midnight."

 

"You sound disappointed?"  She stood on the steps, looking him in the eye now that she was on the first step.

 

"It wasn't how I expected by birthday to end."

 

"It was your birthday?"  She tilted her head as if she didn't believe him.  However, she laughed when he pulled out his passport to show her and to prove that yes, he actually had been out celebrating his birthday.

 

"You went to the ballet alone on your birthday?"

 

"No, my date left at intermission because I only had eyes for you."  There was no deception to him as he told her what had happened. 

 

"I see." The smile a little more obvious, she leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on his cheek.  "In that case, happy birthday, Yakov. Perhaps I will see you again." Without another word, she turned and walked into her apartment building.

 

> **Hello, I love you**
> 
> **Won't you tell me your name?**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are loved :)


	5. Day 5 - Nights in White Satin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the hardest of the songs to pick for the challenge, 1970s are my weak point in music :)

**Day 5: Daily routine | Retirement**

 

**Song - Nights in White Satin by The Moody Blues**

**Prompt - cheat day**

**Year - 1972   Age 26**

 

 

1972, and Yakov was not at the Olympics.  He had injured his knee attempting a triple axel.  It had been stupid, but the triple lutz didn't impress like it had when it was new, and this was the Olympics. If he had been able to get it added to his roster, it would have practically guaranteed him the gold to be the first ever to do it in competition -- but even in practice, he had hurt his ankle.  

 

He'd recover, mostly, but he was missing the Olympics.  He was twenty-six now. This would have been his last Olympics, to still be skating at that level when he was thirty was a pipe dream and he knew it.

 

With nothing better to do, he ended up spending his days at the Mariinsky watching Lilia.  She was only twenty-one and had been promoted to a principal position. He knew the gossip, that she'd be prima before long.  Her name was everywhere. Her face was in even more places. 

 

There was such a temptation to let himself slip into some dark place now that his life had changed so dramatically over one jump.  His skating career over and his piece of paper degree near worthless.

 

There was one thing that kept him from trouble, from taking too many of the pain medicine that they gave him or losing himself in a bottle -- it would have been so easy to do either.  No, he could not do anything like that, he had her. He smiled as he watched her grande jete on the stage. She was amazing. What he had ever done to deserve such a beautiful girlfriend?

 

A notebook in his hands, he was writing, there was one thing he could do with his 'degree' and that was teaching skating at the sports complex.  The little children were the ones he was entrusted with, but he had grander plans than that. As he sat in the theatre listening to the classical greats that he had used to hate, he found the beauty in them, as they were reflected in Lilia's movements.  

 

He hadn't noticed when she had finished her practice, the next group preparing for opening night.  Still in her pink practice clothes, Lilia ran over to him, stopping as she put a hand on her hip to look at him.  Her hair was down from the bun -- they were not allowed to have a French Twist, that screamed too much of England and right now, anything English was to be avoided at the ballet.  

 

He looked up as she sat down next to him, leaning over to place her chin on his shoulder.  "Is it ready?" She looked down at his shorthand, smiling. It was not the same shorthand that skating coaches used, this was the language of dance and she understood it as well as she lived and breathed.  After all, what was ice skating beside a dance on the ice? She couldn't skate -- well, all right, she could skate, but night time skating in public rinks holding Yakov's hand was not the same as what a real skater could do.  She could dance though, and she so wanted to dance for him.

 

Yakov smiled, holding her hands as he stood up, bringing her with him to kiss her lips.  They'd been dating for almost four years now. An incredibly long time -- but she had kept him waiting for so very long, holding him at bay and making him properly try and get her attention, even though he now knew he had had it that first night they had met.

 

He walked with her back to her small apartment, his coat over her shoulder, not caring how cold it was.  He was an ice skater and Russian, he was used to the cold. She was delicate and beautiful and the most important thing to him

 

Now though, he wasn't left on the sidewalk, he walked up to her nearly bare apartment, holding her hands as his coat kept her warm.  There, lying on her bed, the record playing the classical Prokofiev piece she danced his choreography, perfectly performing the piece -- or as well as it could be performed without being on the ice.  Yes -- he had been right all those years ago, he was going to change this sport, only as a coach. He couldn't do it alone. She was his muse. She was his love. She was his life. She was his everything.

 

As she finished the piece, one arm up in a graceful gesture and the other in front of her chest, a perfect end pose for a skating program, he walked over to her.  Oh, maybe this wasn't how things went in the Soviet Union, but they had seen enough Western movies. They had watched old 35mm films in people's houses, the windows blocked off so no one knew.  He knew she'd appreciate this more.

 

Taking her hands, and smiling he whispered, "Beautiful as always, my Lilenka.  My graceful, amazing, brilliant Lilenka. I love you." He leaned into her, kissing her lips so softly, knowing she smiled at how the peppermint lip balm always clung to his rougher lips.  

 

He had never told her the story of the lip balm, maybe someday.  Today though was about her. "Lilenka?" Now his tone was serious, her giggles quieting as those beautiful green eyes looked back up into his.  Then, he dropped to a knee, reaching into his pocket as he smiled up at her, trying to cover up his nervousness. Of course, he was almost certain of her answer, but it was Lilia, one could never fully predict her.

 

She blinked, forgetting to breathe as she watched him drop to a knee -- even with how sore he was from his skating accident.  "Will you marry me, my Lilenka?"

 

"Yasha …"  She was smiling, stunned, but her smile brighter than any she ever had on stage.  "Yes, of course." She felt dizzy, light-headed, as if she were going to pass out, however, Lilia Baranovskaya never passed out or did anything without grace.  Instead, she dropped to her knees in front of him, her emerald green eyes looking into those perfect blue eyes of his. "All you ever had to do was ask."

 

As he slipped the ring over her finger, he smiled at her, whispering, "I love you."

 

"I love you too, Yasha, I love you…"  Her arms were around him, tears running from eyes as she clung to him.  

 

The kisses lost their innocence though, and he didn't leave that night -- he hadn't left in so many nights though.  The sunlight coming through her windows his alarm clock near every day this winter. 

 

This beautiful January day though, she'd call into the ballet office claiming a pressing appointment she just could not miss and go to the ZAGS office and make it official.  

 

Today, the papers were officially signed.  Married -- forever.

 

Today was a cheat day from dance -- one of so very few she'd take in her illustrious career.  

 

Tomorrow they could go back to being the ballerina and the retired skater, today that world didn't exist.  Today it was just Sasha and Lilenka staying warm together under the sheets on a cold cold winter day.

  
  


* * *

>   
> ****  
> Beauty I'd always missed  
>  With these eyes before,  
> Just what the truth is  
> I cant say anymore.  
>   
> cause I love you,  
> Yes, I love you,  
> Oh, how, I love you.  
>   
> 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos comments etc are loved :)


	6. Day 6 - 21st Century Digital Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time jump from the past to something closer to now. And here is how Victor enters our story.
> 
> I had to take some liberties with the whole AU thing because to fit it in with the coherent 7 chapters thing, but it's kind of AU ;)

**Day 6: AU (Dream)**

**Prompt - reversal**

**Song - 21st Century Digital Boy ~ Bad Religion**

**Year - 1999 ~ Victor 10 & Yakov 53**

 

 

 

> **'Cause I'm a twenty-first century digital boy**
> 
> **I don't know how to live but I got a lot of toys**
> 
> **My daddy's a lazy middle-class intellectual**
> 
> **My mommy's on Valium, so ineffectual**
> 
>  

This was not how life was supposed to go.  No, Yakov put the bottle down again. He seldom took on very young skaters -- but money was money, and the Nikiforovs had money.

Maybe this explained how he had ended up with the boy on his couch.  This wasn't how it was supposed to be as he looked at the slight form, sound asleep on that couch, the boy's hair already too long -- but it wasn't as if the child's mother ever thought to get it cut.  Honestly, if not for the Nanny, he didn't think that the boy would have ever made it to practice. It didn't matter now. The boy was his responsibility, signed over and paperwork complete.

The boy's father had no interest in the child, and his mother cared more for her pills than her blood, so now that she was in a hospital, he had the boy.  How the mighty had fallen. Once, not too long ago, he had had a complete stable of skaters, now he was down to one boy -- one talented boy, but still a boy of just ten. 

No longer living in a beautiful house, no longer the talk of the skating community, he was in a shabby one bedroom apartment and able to pay the rent because Lilia was still paying for it -- the bribe for an easy divorce.

Nothing could be done today.  Tomorrow would be back to practice.  He sighed as he walked to his bedroom, maybe he could put a second bed in, or get one of those futons for the living room.  He'd come up with something better for the boy, just not tonight.

 

* * *

 

Yakov woke up in the men's dorms of the Vaganova Academy the same as he had every morning for the past six years. A light breakfast was quickly eaten and then it was off to classes -- academic and dance. Afterward, it was to the dance studio where over and over he was run through his performance before his role tonight at the Mariinsky Theatre.  He had to get it perfect. He had to be perfect. He was Yakov Feltsman. Someday that name would be on everyone's lips.

It was late in the day for lunch by the time his instructor was pleased with his routine, giving him barely enough time for a light snack before he needed to be at the Theatre for the performance.  

Of course, his performance was flawless. He was the top male dancer of the graduating class of the Vaganova -- a title that more than proved his skill and worth.  He was showered with accolades and flowers every night, but it was empty. The praise of all these strangers did nothing for him. All he wanted was to dance. All he had ever wanted to do was dance, better than everyone else.  He was never satisfied, no he had to push himself -- he would be the top male dancer in all of Russia -- no all of Europe.

That night, his feet sore and aching, he sat in a common room of the Academy.  The Olympics were on, well, not live, it was the late night highlights from the earlier performances of the night.   He sat down on the couch, a few other dancers still up as they watched how the Soviet Union had done -- of course, all the highlights were the best of the Soviet athletes.  

Near the end, it was the highlights and there she was.  Lilia Baranovskaya, the top lady's skater in all of the Soviet Union -- no all of the world.  He watched her intently, the grace and the expression in her programs captivated him. He sat, enraptured, as he watched her fly over the ice, her long dark hair pinned up and making her appear even more the dancer, but then she left the ice, twisting through her jump sequences and she was transformed from the appearance of a dancer to some supernatural being of superhuman ability.  

He sat there enraptured until they showed the woman on the podium, roses in her arms and a gold medal around her neck.  She was so beautiful. 

The next day, Yakov's day was the same.  The day after also the same. He danced, wishing he could embody the same grace that he had seen on the ice.  He worked harder, his precision exacting until for graduation, he was accepted not just into the Mariinsky Ballet, but as a principle.  It was near unheard of for a freshly graduated student to have such an honor.

Every day Yakov continued to work himself as hard as he could.  His limbs hurt, but he was getting better, stronger, more precise and the reviews were so positive.  The next production, he had a larger role and his name was often in the papers. Fame brought him no joy though -- he couldn't get her out his mind.

That spring, he walked into the dance studio, expecting the same routine as always -- but she was there.  He saw the skater look across the dance studio, wearing the same clothes that all the dancers wore while practicing.

He gasped as he saw her, her name on his lips.  Why was the famous skater there in his dance studio.  Suddenly the world seemed to have color again and an intensity he had forgotten.  Nothing else in his life compared to just the sight of her.

 

* * *

 

Yakov woke up, gasping, Lilia's name still on his lips as he shook his head.  Really? Now even she was in his dreams. He threw himself back on his bed, no noises from the living room -- his student still sleeping. 

Where had his life gone wrong?

He sat there in his bed, thinking.  He didn't like the answers.

Lilia Baronovskaya and her husband -- he had bothered him so much.  As her fame had grown, his had not. What had he been thinking, it had never been a competition, why had he made his entire life into nothing but a competition?

Frowning, Yakov got up for a glass of water.  If hubris was his error -- he could correct that.  He could change. Maybe it was too late to save his marriage, maybe not.  It was not too late for the boy in the other room though.

Yakov leaned on the doorframe, watching the silver-haired child sleep.  At that moment, Yakov made a vow. This was no longer about him and his career.  This was no longer about his fame. Hubris had been his chain, no longer. He would train Victor and help the boy attain his top performance.  This wasn't about him, it was now about the boy. 

The child had been too let down by his mother and father -- he didn't need to add his coach to the list of adults that had let him down.  Maybe Victor would be great, maybe he wouldn't -- but Yakov was going to do his best to coach the boy for the boy's sake.

 

> **Ain't life a mystery, yeah?**
> 
> **Tried to tell you about no control**
> 
> **But now I really don't know**
> 
> **And then you told me how bad you had to suffer**
> 
> **Is that really all you have to offer?**

 


	7. Day 7 - Call Me When You're Sober

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we have reached the end, but we're right back at the beginning.

 

 

**Day 7 - Free Day!**

 

**Theme - Full Circle**

**Song - Call Me When You're Sober - Evanescence**

**Year - 2006  Age - Victor 17 & Yakov 60**

 

 

 

 

 

 

> **Don't cry to me, if you loved me**
> 
> **You would be here with me**
> 
> **You want me, come find me**
> 
>  

So many years had come and gone.  Yakov was back at the Olympics. This time as a coach.  Seven years had passed since his divorce, since his phone calls stopped being answered.  Seven years since he had been kicked out of his home, kicked out of her life -- but he had not been alone.  He had had a small lost child with him, but that child he had nurtured and developed. As Victor grew, so did his reputation as a coach.  No matter how he said that no it was not him that it was the boy's natural gift, they never believed him. Instead, more children came to his rink, came to his training -- his life slowly being rebuilt.

 

He held his cell phone in his hands, looking at it, trying to decide if he should try calling her.  No, he knew better than to call her. She didn't want to talk to him. He had screwed up too badly.

 

* * *

 

This was amazing!  Victor swung his arms around as he walked across the tarmac to get to the buses to the Olympic Village.  His boots were huge and puffy and amazing, and his fur trimmed jacket was so warm. He smiled, spinning as he practically danced his way to the busses, his coach was barely able to keep up.

 

"Yakov!"  Never mind that everyone else addressed their coaches properly.  "Look! Flowers!" The boy skipped to the welcoming committee, throwing himself into a jumping spin as he did, his long silver hair trailing behind him.    "Yakov! Look!" The boy ran back to his coach, flowers now in his arms and laughter echoing.

 

He had to force his lips to not slip into a smile.  Russia's best hope for a medal in men's skating was twirling like a child.  He was not stoic and brisk like the other athletes. His jacket was undone and his jeans and T-shirt for an amusement park just outside St Petersburg visible.  Aside from the grace and the long hair, Victor could be a normal teenager. His room perpetually a mess, his dog getting into everything. Victor was Yakov's greatest achievement.  He had let Victor simply be Victor. "Yes yes, I see, now behave, Vitya." He tried to act annoyed, but Victor knew he wasn't.

 

Those pale blue eyes almost comically wide, Victor gasped.  "Oh! Look, Look!!!!" Suddenly, out of the flowers, Victor was pulling two stuffed … somethings.  Personally, Yakov thought they looked like something from a horror movie, but Victor clearly thought differently of the anthropomorphic snowball and ice cube.  "We got our own Neve and Glitz!" The boy was spinning with the two plush monstrosities as if they were the best thing he had ever seen.

 

While the rest of the Olympic team seemed to be doing their best to ignore the skater and his coach, the children that made up the welcoming committee seemed overjoyed with Victor.  With long silver hair flowing in the air, fresh off his latest juniors GP win, Victor was hugging his way through what seemed to be the entire welcoming committee, the smiling Russian would be the image on the TVs tonight.  It was fine. This was Victor's first Olympics. There was no reason to not enjoy it.

 

"Vitya!  Stop spinning, I don't want you to be sick on the bus!"  The order was barked out, but the soft form of the boy's name took away the venom, and yes, Yakov loved the confusion that caused.  

 

The boy continued to be excited and hyper, eyes wide as he looked through the windows of the bus, waving back at everyone.  It was how the boy was, and to crush that would be to crush Victor and Yakov refused to crush Victor in the chase for a better skater.  

 

Soon they were checked in and Victor was running off to his room, dragging his suitcase behind him with his skate bag thrown over his shoulder -- Yakov didn't even want to know where the boy had found a Russian flag or why he was wearing it like a cape as he hurried off.

 

Yakov just shook his head as he felt a presence walk up to him.  "You need to control your skater better."

 

"Ahh, Ivan.  My skater is fine."  Yes, it was unconventional.

 

"He calls you Yakov."

 

"Ahh, good, I will tell the Federation they don't need to test your hearing.  I had worried." He felt the good mood that Victor always brought out slowly leaving him.

 

"It would be good if you didn't make a fool of our homeland while we are representing her."

 

"Oh, I would not worry.  All the world cares about is what happens on the ice, and I have no worries that they will love what Victor does there."

 

"You shouldn't be so confident.  Your skater is the fourth spot on the team, do not be forgetting it."

 

Yakov just smiled as he left Ivan behind.  Oh, he wasn't forgetting it. He had the youngest male skater and the only one that had not been in Seniors yet.  He had only just turned seventeen, Next season he would be in seniors. This was his last year of Juniors and instead of preparing for the boy's senior debut, this would be when Victor debuted.  Yes, he had won so much as a junior, but only Yakov knew how the boy was holding back. They were in this for the long term, not to burn out in the boy's teens.

 

Victor loved to skate, and Yakov would not do anything to jeopardize that.

 

* * *

 

After the short program skate, Yakov was smiling and not bothering to hide it.  No one had expected much out of the young Russian -- well, most people hadn't.  Those that truly watched juniors skating had been wondering. As a Junior, Victor never went over a triple.  Other juniors tried a quad toe, but that was always hit or miss at that age. What Victor was known for was absolute perfection.

 

In his Olympic debut outside of Juniors, Yakov had removed the restrictions he had placed on the boy and as Victor threw himself into his first jump, the height and distance impressive, but the rotations were what had everyone stopped.  It was in that instant that Victor landed his first quad toe in competition and it left everyone counting the rotations because the grace and ease looked as if he had done a triple. The rest of the program was flawless, and enough to place him in the top five skaters.  For a boy who had never competed in seniors, it left people speechless.

 

Yakov was not surprised.  He knew what Victor could do and finally, the doctors said the boy's body could take the strain.

 

* * *

 

Later that week, once again Yakov was in the kiss and cry with an ecstatic Victor.  The boy had flowers in his arms and was waving to the crowd with pure joy on his face.  This was not what the propaganda had tried to convince people that Russia would be sending.  This was a young man who loved skating more than anything, who skated with joy and expression and seemed inhuman on the ice with his grace.  A quad toe and a quad Salchow were in the free skate -- and Yakov had made sure that Victor knew he could downgrade either of them. He hadn't though.  The Freeskate had been as perfect as it was in Yakov's dreams. For the moment the boy was in first, and it was possible that there would be a medal for that performance.

 

It was no surprise that more experienced skaters were able to pass the boy, the surprise was that it was only two of them.  Victor had a medal at his first Olympics. Sure, it was bronze, but it was an Olympic medal and as the boy skated to the awards podium, Yakov couldn't help but chuckle as he saw Victor get distracted.  "It's Neve and Glitz!!!!" His trip to the podium delayed by needing to skate at full speed over to the two people in their Olympic mascot suits so he could hug them as if he were five.

 

Yakov could only laugh to himself.  Ivan might be looking distraught at how Victor was acting, but the skaters that man coached were not going to the podium.  The one full of smiles and joy that Yakov taught was the one making that trip.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, Yakov was walking to Victor's room.  They needed to discuss what the boy was going to do for the Gala.  They had a few options, but he hadn't let either of them worry about a gala when it had been so unlikely that they would be in it.

 

He didn't think, using his coaches key to open the door to walk in -- and then he stopped in his tracks.  He looked up at Victor's top bunk, eyes going wide as he saw not just those big blue eyes he was so familiar with looking back at him, but also a set of golden eyes under a mop of blond hair.  

 

For a moment Yakov was about to yell, but then he stopped.  He saw the fear in both boy's eyes as the young Swiss skater looked down at the Russian coach as well.

 

Softly, Victor's voice was heard from the top bunk, "Coach Yakov?"  

 

That was enough to snap Yakov out of it, shaking his head.  He refused to be a hypocrite. "Giacometti. Does your coach know where you are in case he is looking for you?"

 

"Y-Yes, sir?"  The boy was clearly scared.

 

"Vitya?"

 

"Yes, coach?"

 

"Be careful.  Come see me before breakfast, we need to figure out your exhibition skate."  He closed his eyes, a hand slipping into his pocket to feel the ever-present peppermint lip balm.  With that, he left the two boys. It was the Olympics. He wasn't going to ruin it for them.

 

* * *

 

Late that night, after he had had much too much to drink at the bar, Yakov was back in his hotel room.  It was spinning, but he was expected to be celebrating. He wasn't Celebrating. He hurt.

 

How would his life have been different if his coach hadn't …

 

No, thinking about that wasn't something he should do, even as he tasted the peppermint on his lips.  Some doors had closed too long ago.

 

Would his life be different today if he had listened to the advice about finding a plain girl?  Maybe.

 

He knew what hurt tonight though, and he took out his phone, not caring that it was 3 AM back in Saint Petersburg. He dialed her number anyways.  The second she answered though, he hung up, the phone in his lap as he let himself finally cry. He missed her, his Lilenka.

 

 

 

 

 

 

> **You never call me when you're sober**
> 
> **You only want it 'cause it's over, it's over**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a fun week and a fun challenge to do -- I tried something different and wrote 100% of this DURING the week. So none of this was done ahead of time.
> 
> I hope you liked it.
> 
> Comments, Kudos, and Yakov/Lilia is my OTP :)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are adored!


End file.
